Something Like Roommates
by GettingBy
Summary: Mainly MarkRoger, dealing with their first meeting, and following them as they get to know more about one another.  Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **I have no claim to the characters, etc, of course. Without futher ado:

**Something Like Roommates **

There were a limited number of things that Mark didn't hate about Providence. It was a shitty place to live, not fit for a kid whose sole goal since the beginning of high school had been to escape from the stifling, prepackaged atmosphere of Scarsdale and go do something impacting with his life. Instead he learned that he'd traded identical houses for identical dorm rooms, stuffy teachers for stuffy professors, and one set of snobby kids for another. If anything, Brown was worse than Scarsdale High, because everyone had come in with top test scores and imaginations the size of text books.

One of the few things that Mark didn't hate was his roommate, Benjamin Coffin III. Benny. That was mostly because they weren't actually roommates. Benny technically didn't have a roommate at all, and Mark's was a guy named Chuck, who played football and hated liberals. Including Mark. Mark and Benny shared a philosophy class, and after the first party that they both attended, Mark crashed at the other boy's place. Slowly, Mark's things started to be transferred into Benny's dorm. They got along well enough, and Benny was willing to let Mark live on his small couch and use a portion of his closet, so Mark stayed.

Another thing that Mark didn't hate was his philosophy class. Their professor rarely showed up, and generally left it to his TA to run class. The TA had powerful thoughts and a booming laugh, really didn't give a damn what anyone thought about him, and never followed the curriculum. It was the one class Mark never missed, and Collins was the only one of his teachers for whom he had any respect at all.

The last thing that Mark didn't hate about Providence was Heartbeat. It was a seedy club, with a small stage and a large bar. It was the only place that Mark was ever inspired to film, because it was the only place with the raw energy and feeling that he was looking for. The bands usually weren't anything spectacular—they were just college-aged kids trying to get some attention and put their names out there. A few of them had redeeming characteristics that you didn't need to be drunk to enjoy—a drummer here, a bassist there. A front man with darkly lined eyes and a seductive voice who confidently stood center stage.

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The front man disappeared backstage, and Mark's camera followed him for as long as it could. The rest of his band, Cheapshot, was crap, but that guy made up for it. He played guitar and sang like he was born to it, putting himself completely into the music that poured out of him. The entire crowd was captivated, and Mark was no exception.

Twenty minutes later, a hand fell on Mark's shoulder. He turned around, and there were those dark eyes, staring at him with an expression somewhere between amusement and confusion. "Hey," he said, and Mark replied, "Hi." There was a short silence, and then the singer demanded, "You were filming me. Why?"

Mark felt suddenly guilty, because he'd filmed a few dozen other bands, if they had even a hint of decency, but he didn't want to tell this to the man in front of him. Instead, he said, "You're good. Really good. You shouldn't be with the guys you're with." It may've been a cheating way to escape, getting around the question without really answering it, but it distracted the other guy enough, and his green eyes brightened.

"You really think so?" he asked, sounding excited. It was a surprise, that the person who was so sexy and sure of himself onstage could sound like he wanted approval so much. Mark grinned at the thought, and got a smile in return, which he appreciated even if they were smiling for different reasons. "Yeah, I think so. I make films; I can tell what's making good footage and what isn't." The broad smile stayed in place as a tanned hand was extended. "I'm Roger," the singer said, and looking back later, Mark thought that he probably would have dropped out of school and left for New York right then, if Roger had asked.

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There were a few things that Mark really loved about New York City. He liked most aspects of it, because breathing the city air was like breathing art, if you could ignore the pollution and smog laced into it. Mark and Roger both could, so that was no problem.

One of the things he liked most was that no matter where he went, there was always something to film. People did crazy shit all the time, like trying to walk on top of cars during traffic jams, or painting joints into the mouths of people on the big billboards. Alright, so there was only the one billboard, and it was done by Collins after he'd moved in, but that actually enhanced the clip, because it made it that much better to look back on and laugh at.

When all else failed, in terms of interesting sights to film, there were always Roger's concerts. He'd managed to get himself a band together, and The Well Hungarians were substantially better than Cheapshot had ever been. They tore into all the clubs in the vicinity, and if the amount of girls (and occasionally guys) who descended upon the members after their shows were any indication, not only were they good, but their name was appropriate as well.

Another thing that Mark loved about New York was how much freedom he had. Yes, his mom called to bitch incessantly at him about how he'd ruined his life by leaving Brown after only a year of being there, but she really couldn't do anything about it. Mark got to set his own schedule, coming and going from the loft (which was like heaven, being huge and aesthetically perfect, in a bohemian way) whenever he pleased. He didn't have to go to classes, and he lived with Roger and Collins, who didn't give a fuck.

No one even gave a fuck the first time that Roger stumbled in the door, drunk off his ass, with his hands dragging a shirt over the tousled head of a dark-haired young man, and his tongue halfway down the guy's throat. Mark looked quickly away, back to his projector where he'd been editing some footage. When the door to Roger's bedroom slammed shut, Mark looked up and caught Collins' eyes. The other man burst out laughing at the look on the filmmaker's face. "He's a rock star, boy," Collins chuckled, "And he's drunk. One mouth works as well as another." Then he went back to doing his crossword.

Mark was still awake a few hours later when he heard the door to Roger's bedroom creak open again, and the young man slipped out quietly, completely forgetting the discarded shirt. This was New York, after all. No one cared.

By this time, Mark was comfortable enough with Roger to bring it up the next morning. He was up before Roger, and had coffee brewed for his roommate and a cup of tea for himself when Roger stumbled out, wearing only his baggy, ratty pajama pants and blinking blearily.

Mark couldn't really help that his eyes immediately jumped to the fine hairs that trailed down from Roger's navel to disappear below the worn blue plaid material, and that his mind jumped to sex. He spent half the night listening to his roommate moaning in his thick, dark voice, and now the short hair was messy, and he still had last night's eyeliner rimming his half-lidded eyes. It was really no wonder that Mark had sex on the brain, with all that considered. Roger knew it too, judging by his smugly curved lips as he poured himself coffee and came to sit next to Mark on the couch.

"Something wrong?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows innocently. He was impatient, because he knew damn well when he had the upper hand in a conversation. Mark swirled his tea without responding. Finally he said, "Good night last night?"

Roger's grin was feral, and he didn't look abashed in the least. "Yeah," he said simply. Mark knew that he was waiting for Mark to comment further, and he was torn between curiosity and not wanting to give Roger the satisfaction of being asked what he knew was coming. Normally it was Mark who had the greater span of patience, but this time Roger's look: so self-satisfied, and his own curiosity, got the better of him.

"What….are you?" he asked awkwardly, and Roger winked and said, "A sex god." Mark rolled his eyes, telling himself that the only reason he privately agreed was that he hadn't had a girlfriend in way too long. "Seriously, Roger."

The self-proclaimed sex god leaned just slightly closer to Mark, making him scoot back a little, so that he was pressed against the arm of the couch. Roger had an amazing ability to look dangerous when he wanted to, and he definitely wanted to. "I'm bi, or something like that," he explained, and to Mark it sounded more like a challenge than anything else. In words that almost exactly mirrored Collins', he continued, "I'm a rock star. It's almost a requirement to play for both teams, especially when they've been buying you drinks and are providing the condoms."

Mark could feel the colour rising in his cheeks as he eyed Roger warily. "So, this isn't the first time, then," he stated, more for something to say than for clarification. He already knew the answer, after all. His roommate shook his head firmly. "I still can't believe you don't remember anything from that one night, last September, you know, when you were utterly wasted. You wouldn't be so surprised if you remembered _that._"

Even more red flushed into the filmmaker's face as he sputtered, finally getting out, "You…I…we…did we do something? What did we do? Roger, how could you not have told me?" At his expression, Roger burst out laughing. "Nothing happened," he assured Mark, "I was just kidding." He scooted himself a little closer, putting a hand on the back of the couch and another on the cushion on the other side of Mark, so he was almost hanging slightly above him. "But…" he offered, "If it interests you that much…" He left the sentence hanging, a proposition that Mark knew he should refuse, but couldn't quite find the energy to. Who could refuse Roger something like that, anyway?

Instead, Mark said nothing. He was afraid to commit himself to something that he wasn't completely certain he wanted—something he was afraid Roger would laugh in his face for.

For a moment, both of them were sure that despite Mark's silence, something had to happen. Roger was hanging over Mark, searching his face, and Mark was poised below him, watching with very round, very blue eyes.

Then Mark unconsciously wetted his lips, and the moment was broken. Roger hoisted himself up, acidly telling Mark, "You wish," and disappeared back into his room, firmly shutting the door behind him.

Mark was left unsure if he should be disappointed or relieved.

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The loft smelled like sex a lot of the time. It positively reeked of it the first time Mark encountered April. He was, predictably, the first one awake, if only because Collins wasn't there, but not the first one into the main room. He walked out, blearily rubbing his eyes, and was stopped short by the scene before him.

Roger was sprawled out, sleeping, across the couch, his clothes strewn about the room. Curled up on his chest, also completely naked, was a small, slim girl, whose features were mostly obscured by her thick, dark red hair. Mark stood, staring, for a moment, and then the girl began to stir. He quickly turned away, starting for the coffee pot, but was stopped again by a languid voice saying, "Hey," drawing out the single syllable seductively. Mark froze, swiveling back towards the couch again.

The girl had disentangled herself from Roger now, and was sitting up, her hair only tumbling as far as her shoulders, which were thin and bony. She made no attempt to cover herself at all, and instead leaned against the arm of the couch with a dangerous smile that Mark had long come to associate with Roger. Immediately all the blood in his body rushed into his face, and then dropped out the next moment to go straight downwards. The girl's grin widened, and he could tell that she knew. "Nice to meet you," she drawled, holding out a hand.

Mark hesitated. She was about five feet in front of him, and he would have to go right up to her in order to shake her hand. She looked so wicked and so fabulous, and she knew damn well what the thoughts running through his mind were. He understood from this first moment of meeting her what drew Roger to her. In spite of his better judgement, he closed the distance between them and let her grab onto his hand. "What's your name?" she encouraged, and he fought to keep his eyes on her face. "Umm. Mark. I'm Roger's…roommate," he finally managed.

The girl released his hand and said, "Well, Mark, I'm April. I'm Roger's fantasy." There was absolutely no doubt in Mark's mind that that was accurate. He gave her an awkward smile and, as he backed away, asked, "Do you want some coffee?" It was easier than trying to actually deal with her.

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Over time, Mark learned that there was quite a lot he liked about April. She had a fire—a passion—about her that seemed to draw out the most bohemian, artistic parts of anyone who came in contact with her. She was Roger's muse, which meant Roger playing his guitar all the time and grinning constantly because he was just dripping music. It meant Mark could make videos of the gorgeous, tiny, pixyish girl perched in Roger's lap as the musician guided her hands, trying to teach her guitar, even though she was terrible at it and could only play the opening of one waltz.

It meant that it didn't matter when there was no food, and no rent money, because Roger still could write his songs and Mark could still write his scripts.

April was the one to bring Maureen home. Roger had been at band practice, and Mark was at home with Collins and Benny, who had moved in the week before. The door slammed open, and there were two silhouettes where they'd only expected one. April and Maureen spilled in the door, drunk and giggling like little children, trying to push the hair off their faces and hold their tiny shirts in place. No one ever got a completely clear answer as to how they'd met, or why Maureen had shown up, but Mark certainly wasn't going to complain.

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Despite how much she was there, April never quite moved into the loft. Mark thought that, considering that she didn't even live there, she could have chosen a better place to kill herself than in their bathroom. Along with that, he resented how well her bright eyes had hid how thin and gaunt she and Roger were getting, how her ability to spin just so for his camera had distanced Mark from the way they hid their arms and their stashes. He blamed April's smiles for covering up the way she and Roger had begun to self destruct.

The last morning that Mark saw April, she was sitting on the floor near the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, frowning in concentration as she picked at the strings of Roger's guitar and tried to coax out that waltz. Roger was somewhere—it had gotten hard to keep track of him—and Mark waved a farewell to April. She hardly looked up from her playing, and Mark hardly took in anything more than her tiny frame dressed in Roger's sweats.

There was no grand moment of truth when they met eyes and Mark was filled with dread. April didn't stand up and pose for a last video. She just gave a little wave, and Mark headed out.

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When he got home that night, the guitar was still on the ground, without April holding onto it anymore. Mark gently set his camera on the tiled counter and walked over to the bathroom, dropping his scarf along the way. Roger had had a few gigs, and the money hadn't run out completely yet, so it was warm enough.

He approached the door with a faint sense of irritation. The half-open door made it obvious that it was motionless within, which meant April or Roger or Collins or Maureen or Benny (Mark wondered when it had gotten so full in the loft anyway) had left the light on, and they sure as hell couldn't afford to throw away any extra money on the electric bill. Without much more thought than that, he pushed open the door more fully.

His resulting calm amazed Mark as he took in the sight before him. He was frozen and silent as he looked at April, no longer in Roger's sweats (she knew he didn't have the money for more clothes), but instead dressed up in her most flattering black shirt, and a denim skirt and leggings. She wore her scuffed tennis shoes, and two silver necklaces, and as Mark stared blankly at her pale, pale skin, he wondered vaguely if she'd planned her outfit so she'd still be beautiful at her funeral.

Mark finally tore his eyes away when he heard the door open. He turned, ashen-faced, to see Collins and Roger, and then he couldn't look at Roger, so he looked back into the bathroom, where it was so red and bright, and then he could hear Roger come up behind him, filling the loft with his frantic denials..

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Mark hated how the loft sounded after April died. Most of the time, it was silent. Roger had tried to smash his guitar, and after Mark took it from him, he just refused to touch it, because there was no music without April. Benny didn't bother coming home anymore, and Collins had been offered, and accepted, a job at MIT. Sometimes Mark and Maureen would try to make conversation, but it always died in the face of the oppressing silence. Then they'd either have sex, or, more often, Maureen would go off—somewhere—to escape.

The times that it wasn't silent were when Roger's withdrawal got too bad. Mark had had to go through the whole fucking apartment with Collins and Maureen looking for stashes, and physically fight Roger to keep him from going to try to get more. With Collins gone, Mark was the only one Roger would let touch him. This was as bad as the silence. Roger shook, and moaned, and sweated, twisting and tangling his sheets as Mark tried to clean him up and calm him down, petting his hair and changing the bedclothes.

About four months into this, Mark walked into Roger's room holding a cup of water, only to find him sitting up. "Rog? How're you feeling?" he asked tentatively. Roger gave no reply, just watched Mark draw closer. Finally Mark perched on the edge of the bed, scooting over until he was next to his roommate. "You want something to drink?" he enquired.

Roger seemed to consider him for a moment before suddenly lunging at Mark, pushing him backwards onto the covers. The cup of water fell, spilling everywhere, and Mark watched in shock as Roger's mouth connected with his in a hungry, desperate sort of kiss. There was nothing genuine or affectionate when Roger started to grab at Mark's crotch. This wasn't about Roger wanting Mark, but Mark could feel himself growing hard regardless. He knew better—he knew he shouldn't give in and let this happen, but it just felt so good to have Roger trying to devour his mouth that he kissed back with a soft moan.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, Roger dropped his hand and, eyes brimming with tears, told Mark brokenly, "She's gone. She's _gone._"

Mark held his best friend as he sobbed, and tried to calm his own pounding heart.

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Mark thought that the best and worst aspect of Mimi had been her resolve to live without reservations about the future, and to have everyone around her do the same. It was what kept her going back to drugs until her collapsing immune system couldn't support that anymore. But it was also why Roger could keep going with life afterwards.

The two boys were at a relatively inexpensive restaurant (thank you Collins, programming genius) scouring their menus when the waitress approached. She was small and cute, with choppy brown hair and big hazel eyes. With a grin she asked, "Can I get you some drinks?" Nodding, Mark ordered for them both.

Just before she turned to go fill their order she paused, looking back at them. Mark raised an eyebrow and the girl inquired cheerfully, "Special occasion? Anniversary? Birthday?"

Roger tipped his chair backwards onto two legs and laughed as Mark's face reddened. Finally, the filmmaker managed to choke out, "No--no, we're not--I mean, he's not my--we're just...roommates." The girl glanced over them again, not looking at all chagrined at her mistake, and said, "Okay then. Roommates," then hurried off to get their drinks.

They left over an hour later, weaving out the door under the influence of hot food and easy laughter, enhanced by the buzz stemming from alcohol that was clouding their thoughts. They stumbled up the too-many flights of stairs practically hanging off each other. Near the top, Mark tripped, grumbling, "They should put in an elevator," with attempted rancor. This elicited a short bark of laughter from Roger, who grabbed Mark's wrist to steady him and guided them both towards the door.

The two stumbled in the loft door with Roger still hanging onto Mark and Mark not thinking to pull free. Roger led them to the counter where they stopped awkwardly for a moment, staring at each other. Mark could feel his own pulse thudding where Roger's rough thumb dug into his skin. _Roommates, _he reminded himself. _My best friend._ His roommate's eyes were making it hard to convince himself, especially since he was lonely, horny, and drunk.

Then the tension, the temptation—everything that had gone unsaid between them for years—broke. Roger reached for Mark's other wrist, twisting his arms up over his head as he shoved the shorter boy up against the wall. This time, as Roger bit at Mark's lips and possessed his mouth, he wasn't trying to recreate his lost lover. Mark moaned and Roger didn't pull away.

Mark squirmed, half-heartedly trying to free his hands, and Roger grinned with his old catlike mischief. There was no way Mark would have guessed how good it would feel to have Roger leaning into him, sliding a knee in between his legs. Mark rubbed against it shamelessly, voice rasping as he groaned, "Ohhhh fuck yes."

Pausing, Roger replied, "I could arrange that," voice dark with lust. He let Mark's arms go, running his hands down them as he grappled for the bottom of Mark's shirt. Mark let it be torn off of him, and watched in admiration as Roger peeled his own away too. His body had lost some of the tone and shape it had once had, but it wasn't the gaunt skeleton it had been, either.

Impatiently, Roger had begun undoing Mark's pants, leaving him little time to admire. Instead, in a moment he was naked, and Roger was spinning him to face the wall.

"Stay," Roger breathed, and Mark shivered. He wouldn't have dreamed of doing otherwise.

A kitchen drawer slid open and shut, clothes fell to the floor, a package was ripped open, and then Roger was back, pressing up next to Mark's hip. Mark wanted to turn, to see Roger, kiss him, but he was kept facing the bare stone wall. "Shhh, relax," he heard, and a hot mouth sucked at the skin covering his collarbone and shoulder. Mark tipped his head back, letting Roger control him.

Then a single finger, slick and wet, ran down along his spine to press up against his entrance. He sucked in a breath, mouth drying in anticipation, nervous and excited. Before he continued, Roger murmured, "I need you," and then forced a finger into Mark.

He bucked, moaning in pain, as Roger wrapped his other hand around his waist to steady him. Roger added a second finger, stretching Mark, curling his fingers to hit a spot Mark hadn't ever really known existed.

Now his moans were a mix of pleasure and pain, enhanced when the hand on his stomach drifted down to grasp his cock. He rolled his hips back and forth, trying to find a rhythm that would accommodate for both Roger's hands.

Roger slid his fingers out, leaving Mark gasping. The loss of contact was quickly remedied, however, as Roger wrapped his other arm around Mark also, pushing into him with no hesitation. Now he set the pace, thrusting hard and fast without letting up his stroking. Mark just clutched at Roger's arms, gasping for breath. He was trying to hold back, because fuck, it felt so amazing that he never wanted Roger to stop, and he really regretted never having done this before.

Despite his resolve, Mark finished first, not fully able to relax until Roger ended not long after him. Then he sank, incoherent, as Roger supported him.

For several minutes they stayed like this, with Mark pressed between Roger's hot torso and the cold wall. Finally he pulled himself more upright, and Roger loosened his grasp enough for Mark to turn and face him, though still from within the comfortable circle of Roger's arms.

"You're blushing," Roger observed, and the corners of Mark's mouth curved up despite himself. "Bastard," he replied, swatting at Roger's head.

This earned him a snort and, "Lame," tempered with a teasing grin. Then Roger pushed himself backwards, and Mark bit back the urge to sigh as he peeled himself away from the wall also. Roger was heading to the trash can to throw away his condom, so Mark picked up his clothes and started towards his bedroom.

Just before he reached it, Roger's voice rang out behind him. "Roommates, huh?"

Mark turned, and with a small smile replied, "Something like that."


End file.
